


Talking To Myself

by EloquentSavage



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Almost death, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mentioned Deputy Parrish, Mentioned Melissa McCall, Mentioned Rafael McCall, Mentioned Scott McCall, POV Derek Hale, the white room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EloquentSavage/pseuds/EloquentSavage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can't say it all at once though. I can't warn him about what the banshee said without explaining why, and I can't do that without telling him how I feel. I shouldn't give him both that way though. I would just be distracting him from my confession with a prophetic threat on his life. He would wonder if the imminent danger was the only reason I’m saying it now. Maybe he wouldn't care, maybe he would make that easy too because he knows how life is. We've tried, but we can't pick and choose how this shit finds us. I can't do that to him though. I can make this better. I can protect him for a while. I’m better than just dumping it all on him. He wouldn't do that to me, so one has to come before the other.</p><p>I say that to myself, as if I have a choice about which one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking To Myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rolowics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rolowics/gifts).



> Unbeta'd, forgive me my commas. I rewrote this story so entirely it's something completely new and much, much better. The new shiny fluffiness was inspired by Rolowics and his unfiltered enthusiasm for all things wonderful. #NotSorry #4Life

There’s never a good answer to how I end up in places like this, fighting off things like a banshee. She’s a small woman who's past her prime, but the wicked sword fighting skills make up for the lack of strength and speed easily. She didn't slow down without giving as good as she got. It's not like I don't understand why I’m fighting her. I don’t need a reason beyond keeping other people safe, but an explanation might be nice. I don’t I need one of those either, but sometimes I want one. Needing answers or explanations implies something might change if I had them, that it might make any of it easier. 

Sometimes I get tired of the things I think, like convincing myself of the shit I don't need because I'm never going to get it anyways. It’s a symptom of hopefulness that I bother to say this garbage to myself at all, and hope is an awful, crippling thing. I don't grind myself into the ground for the redundant stupidity of my thoughts anymore though, not like I used to. I don't focus with every ounce of rage while I’m fighting anymore either. I tend to walk away less damaged that way, and so do the people I'm fighting. I complain a little in my own head and I feel like I’m managing things. I’m figuring out how to make it work, doing as little damage as possible until that moment they make me choose between incapacitating, or killing them. I wish they would be more reasonable. I would let more of them walk away. I'll never understand the fanaticism, the agenda that seems to go hand in hand with being a supernatural creature. Most of us just want to survive, so why do we purposely make ourselves targets by acting like we're insane?

What would really make things easier though is for shit to slow down. If I had a moment to put myself back together again before something new was ripping me to pieces I might feel like I was ahead of the game instead of constantly struggling to catch up. That would be much better. 

The sound of her shoulder crunching under my fist punctuates the irrational nature of thinking about crap like this while I'm taking her down. It's over though. She's losing and it's a choice between dwelling on this shit I shouldn't be thinking or watching her crumble under my hands in a way that should make me feel sick and disgusted by my own willingness to hurt her. She came here, she started it. I asked her not to, but she laughed in my face. I ignored that, but I couldn't ignore the actions she took. That's my job now, this is what I do. 

I signed up for this. I chose to stay. I knew it was a trade off. I don't question what my purpose is. I don't have to wonder where I fit anymore and no one can use that uncertainty against me ever again, but I never get to relax, or be safe. With great power comes great responsibility. That corny shit sounds just as stupid in my own head as it did coming out of Jackass Parrish's mouth. To be fair, he likes me and he was trying to be a good guy. I think he was thanking me. He'll probably say less this time when they come get her, if I'm still here when they do. The women bother him more than the men. I'm still not sure what they’ll find, if she’ll be dead, or just unconscious. I wish I was like Lydia Martin sometimes, maybe have the chance to know so I could plan for it, be more prepared, but I can't spend too much time wishing for shit I can't have or I'll end up dead. Then it would be Stiles' dad and Redshirt Parrish out here, losing this fight instead of winning it. 

“Why?” she asks me. The wet, red sound of her voice settles in my ears and I know, she won't be walking away. 

I didn’t expect her to speak. The words make me stop and take a good look at the damage I’ve done. I hit her too hard when I was thinking about the Sheriff losing against her. She was almost down. That blow crushed part of her chest, turned the ribs above her lungs into pieces. It's a miracle she's talking at all, but I can’t control a fight for survival, and she made this a fight for survival, not me. 

I never want it to end this way. I hate this. I hate every part of these last few moments. Mine isn't the last face they should see. Even the worst of them should see someone they love, not Derek Hale, killer of all things that disturb the peace.

“Because you’re trying to kill people,” I answer, because I haven’t learned to keep my mouth shut, and not fall for this shit anymore. 

She laughs and the sound is ugly, blood making an uncomfortable noise in her throat. I didn’t want to kill her, I don't want to now. I’ve learned a better way, but it’s the only merciful thing I can do. I don’t want to watch her suffer. I don't wish that on anyone. 

She’s wasting her last breaths laughing at something that wasn’t funny. Her bloodshot eyes are blown out, dilated the way Lydia's get when she "hears" things. But it’s also the look people have when they know they’re going to die, when they feel it coming. It probably isn’t prophecy because the only thing this poor woman is listening to is the broken bones and blood drowning the last few breaths she will ever take. The powers that be couldn't possibly be cruel enough to feed her a prophecy in the sound of her own death rattle, I hope, but I listen just in case. 

“Derek Hale... you don't care about them... you don't care. Why are you doing this?” she asks, her voice far too clear through all the damage. 

She’s laughing, delirious. I want to ask her why she said it, and how she knows my fucking name. Why she has any clue who I am. But she isn't the first. She's just one more in a long line of lunatic supernaturals that always seem to have my name on the tip of their tongue. The real question is why she would care enough to waste her last breaths on me, even if the powers that be did send a message, why not tell them to fuck off, especially if they brought her here. The only thing she should have cared about was behaving herself in my territory. I lift my hand, claws waiting for the wrong words to come out of her mouth. There are a lot of wrong words she could say, and I have a feeling she's about to let a few of them loose.

“They’re coming for him next,” she says, then her eyes fall as the blood drains from the gash on her throat. 

I had to, she was suffering. She was delirious. I won't listen to the dying words of a lunatic. 

I wipe my hands on my pants, wishing blood wasn't sticky, and sit down before I take my phone out to call John Stilinski. I like him. I like knowing I can call him. I feel safe talking to him. I wish Chris was still in town, I would have called him first. He might have been with me right now, and this thing would have played out much differently. When Chris is here it's better to follow his lead. 

John picks up on the first ring. I like him, but I don't like the tension in his voice every time I call. I wish I could ask him out to breakfast, or take him for a run, if he did that sort of thing. Maybe this is better. The bad news is never a surprise because it’s always bad news when I call. 

I hold my breath for a moment, then I’m speaking, but my voice feels far away. “I’m in the industrial district, 47 water avenue. Your hunch was right, she was exactly where you said she’d be.”

I know he got most of his information from Lydia, but he puts things together in a way I will never be able to understand, just like Stiles. 

“Lydia gave me most of the pieces,” John says, because he is incapable of taking credit for someone else's work if he's not forced to do so attempting to keep all out secrets. “I assume she’s dead then?” he asks quietly, because John Stilinski has reverence for the dead, no matter how terrible they were in life. 

It’s not a leap of deduction for John, because I avoided mentioning her current state instead of telling him outright I killed her.

I don't want to disappoint him. 

“She didn’t give me any other choice,” I say this instead of confirming her death, again, hoping he’ll understand. 

“I know, son,” John says with a heavy, apologetic sigh. The apology is for me. 

All of my muscles bleed out the tension I need so desperately to hold onto and I hunch over, holding myself up with my elbows on my knees. I have to hold myself up because my bones feel like rubber and I want to cry. He shouldn’t understand. John, of all people, shouldn’t give me permission by forgiving me. 

“Are you okay?” John asks, taking his forgiveness too far. 

I sit up and breathe deep, turning my insides to ice and cold, because I don’t know John, and he doesn’t owe me anything. 

“I’m fine,” I don’t lie well. 

We won’t see each other soon if I can help it, so it doesn't matter. 

“Okay, but you should stop by Melissa’s, let her look you over if there’s any question. That woman ruptured Scott’s eardrum and he didn’t notice right away. He had a little trouble healing.” John doesn’t want me to suffer needlessly, and I never know how to respond to that.

Ever since Stiles explained the difference between eye color, and what it meant -- that I don't heal as fast as an alpha, or a beta -- he worries. John doesn't suggest going to Deaton, even though they’re friends and Deaton has more experience with my kind. In John's mind Deaton treats animals, and I am a person, so he wants me to go to Melissa. John will never understand how much that means to me, neither will Melissa. 

Suffering is inconvenient, but I’ll still heal, eventually. John wouldn’t, Parrish wouldn’t, and neither would any of the other deputies. 

I'm holding the phone to my ear, my thoughts drifting off. I haven’t said anything for a long time. I do this to him all the time. I have no idea how strange John thinks I am, but he overlooks it. 

“I’m sending Parrish out right now, but you need to go. You can't be there when he pulls up. I don't want them to catch you on the dash cam again. And make sure you don't leave anything behind,” John says. The edge in his voice betraying his concern, hoping I'll answer, that I'm not dead. He reminds me to protect myself, to make his job easier, and make protecting me easier. That’s why I call him instead of just leaving the mess for someone to find. 

“Okay, I will,” I say this instead of goodbye, ending the call. I never say goodbye, no one expects me to anymore, except Cora. 

I have towels in my car, and duct tape. It works well enough to hold together the long, ugly gash below my ribs. Banshees with swords are new, but crazy usually wants to protect itself. I’m not that surprised. 

Now that the adrenaline is gone, standing hurts, walking hurts, sitting in the car hurts, but I have to leave before the police get here. I can’t feel myself healing yet and it's clear I do need help, just a little though. Melissa or Peter can stitch me up, keep my blood inside me for long enough to gain some ground on the wound. If my body isn't frantically trying to replace all the blood I'm losing, then I'll probably start to heal right away. I pull out into the road and decide where to head. I want to go to Melissa, because she is nice to me. She talks to me and says things that make me feel better about living how I live. Last time she hugged me and thanked me for helping Scott so much. I don't know if I really do, but I like Melissa. I hate getting help from Peter, and I haven't seen him in days. 

I'll go to Melissa, but I don’t want to call ahead and find out if that lurchy asshole Scott calls a father is hanging around. Agent McCall isn't really a bad guy, but he so tall, and he already has too many questions. He doesn't know about Scott. He is inconvenience embodied. It’s just as easy to drive by and see if his car is there, so I turn on to Walnut and head toward Scott’s house. 

If anyone besides Cora knew I sing along to the 90’s station I might die from embarrassment. The songs make me happy, and remind me of Laura. There were times we had fun, mostly when we were trapped in the car together for hours, after we gave up on being miserable all the time. Sometimes I still drive her Camaro because it has all of her cd’s loaded in the changer. 

Why am I doing this? The banshee asked me that.

It took longer than I thought it would for me to remember what she said and fixate on it. I want to pretend it didn't mean anything, but she hit a nerve. When I slit her throat, that sinking feeling in my gut, I wouldn't be able to let it go. 

‘They’re coming for him next.’ Those were her dying words. Why would she waste her dying words on something so fucking vague? Unless her dying words were for herself, but she didn't have anyone with her, no partner or man we would be coming for next. We don't go looking for people. We don't start fights, we end them. 

The words feel wrong in my head, like they're looking back at me somehow, because banshees know things about you, things that haven’t happened yet. Even if she was crazy everything a banshee says means something. Sometimes because the world wraps around the shit that comes out of their mouths, especially if they’re old. They become so powerful they start foretelling the mundane, and eventually events happen because they want them to, more than because they were going to happen anyways. That's when a banshee starts to go crazy. Nothing can keep that much power trapped inside it's head for long.

Age, power, wisdom. It doesn't always go hand in hand. 

She asked why do I care? None of it makes any sense, but banshees speak in riddles. It’s infuriating and ridiculously obscure. They want you to fixate, be distracted trying to figure things out while they move around you. Lydia Martin is the only banshee I have ever been able to tolerate speaking to because she grew up not knowing what she was. Lydia thought she had her whole life ahead of her to accomplish things, human things. She didn’t know her life was going to belong to the powers that be. She’s fierce, loyal, and adaptable. She’s more like Laura than any banshee I’ve ever met, now that she doesn’t act like a tiresome, entitled brat. I like Lydia.

I feel sick more because of the bleeding than the banshee now though. The street lights are flaring and I can’t get my beta vision to kick in. Everything is grey and uncomfortably fuzzy. I’m also not driving on the right street, this isn’t Walnut. I’m no where near Scott’s house. My phone isn’t in my pocket like it should be. I was holding it while I drove, just in case, but I dropped it. I was too busy fixating on stupid shit instead of making sure I don’t die. 

I strain against the towel and duct tape, my fingers brushing the ugly beige carpet of my suv as I reach for my phone. My fingertips rush against it and I ignore the pain and stretch a bit further. I should pull over but I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to last. Pain shoots through my side as the tender flesh around the edges of my wound stretches. Sparks fly through my vision, and I can't breathe, or pull myself up. The car shakes like I'm driving over a curb, pitching me forward. I let off the gas and pull up on the emergency brake. 

I didn't know it when I grabbed the brake and pulled as hard as I could, but it was my last act of consciousness. 

Unconsciousness is stupid. This fucking white room. I’ve been here so many times. Here is where you come when you’re dead, or almost dead I guess. I’m a fucking werewolf, so if I’m unconscious, it’s likely I’m pretty close to death. This little bit of logic is the only reason that would justify the many, many times I've been here. You would think the awe inspiring Powers That Be would at least make their imaginary safe space prettier, or more organic. But no, it’s an endless white room with ceiling tiles, columns and mottled linoleum, like some sort of cheap department store in a strip mall. Sometimes I wonder if they are so out of touch they actually think we like this shit, or maybe it's more purposeful. Maybe its the kind of place everyone feels moderately safe, a place where no one is worried about what’s lurking in the dark corners, because there aren’t any. 

Though I have spent a lot of time here, mostly it's long and boring, unremarkable. But sometimes I see things that the powers want me to see, I hope. I like to think it's them and not just the crazy rambling of my dying mind. I honestly believe they talk to us. I think they show banshees the future and everyone else the past, so we can understand the future. Sometimes I dream about the future, and it comes true. It's never anything helpful though, just small things I want. A quiet day reading, a funny conversation with a friend, or a slow, rainy day where no one calls. I guess that's helpful, hopeful in a way. The visions feel awful most of the time though, ominous, like that last spark of something good waiting to be crushed by the shitstorm of life. Maybe that spark is as good as it will ever get, but I don't mind. That’s why I stopped planning for anything better. 

I don’t know if that's the right thing to do because it’s not like the Powers That Be handed me an instruction manual. They’ve just tapped me in to their network, they talk and hope I understand the message before something kills me or the people I protect. Banshees speak in riddles because there's nothing giving them instructions either. Maybe all supernatural creatures are always tapped in, flying by whatever instincts we’re given, hoping when we see things, and know things we shouldn’t, we get it right. 

“Hey, why are you here this time?” Stiles’ voice asks from behind me, interrupting my supernatural existential crisis.

Sometimes Stiles is here too. Actually, he's the only one that's ever here anymore, and I don't know why. I miss Laura, she used to be here before. 

“Banshee, sword,” I say, because Stiles doesn't need everything spelled out for him. It's silly to speak to him like he's Stiles anyways, because he's not. I'm still having an internal monologue, it just has Stiles' face now. I get that, but talking to him feels better than talking to myself, so I play the game.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks the same question the banshee asked. 

I sigh, because I don't really want to go on some big, introspective walk-about right now. I just want to not die. 

“Do you think you could be Stiles right now, and not the enigmatic avatar meant to guide me through shit until I figure it out for myself?” 

“Hey, don't be an asshole. I’m not that guy, you're that guy. I show up when you want sarcasm and straight answers,” Stiles says, because he’s right, and I always want sarcasm and straight answers. I've come to appreciate sarcastic bitterness and honestly like I never dreamed I would. It's Stiles' trademark and the only thing left about Peter I still understand. 

“Talk,” I say, because Stiles appreciates my directness. 

“I think the whole thing is connected. It's not a riddle, it's just painfully vague. ‘Why are you doing this’ is the same answer as the him they are coming for next.” Stiles shrugs, making the most simple, obvious deductive leap anyone could possibly make. It’s genius, or it's too simple to be the answer. 

“I’m protecting Beacon Hills because my mother told me it needed to be protected. I’m doing this for them, for myself really, because they're gone. So, they’re coming for me next?” I ask, not really expecting an answer. 

They’re always coming for me. 

How is this news? 

“Oh, that’s -- that's cute, where did you get that bullshit? Have you been watching Ellen again?” Stiles laughs at me, and immediately I'm annoyed. Deeply annoyed. “I applaud your attempt at self actualization, but you don't do shit for yourself, not the right things anyways. Which is why you drove away with a towel and duct tape holding you together instead of stitching yourself up, like I know you can.” 

Stiles stares at me and I feel like a bug trapped in a jar. This conversation is unfair because this Stiles can read my mind. Outside of this place he is tenacious and stubborn. Inside the white room he's like a weapon that hones in on every bit of bullshit I try to pretend is the truth. I say these things to myself out of convenience most the time, but Stiles doesn't seem to care. He only cares if the bullshit gets in his way. 

“Sure, sure,” Stiles waves his hands, preemptively dismissing the argument I'm piecing together. “At this point, of course being injured is nothing more than a reason to be social, right? You get fucked up and you spend a little time being taken care of by someone, even if it’s Peter, it’s still something. Someone gives a fuck if you live or die.” Stiles walks around me, inspecting me with his eyes narrowed. 

A foreboding sense of dread churns in my stomach. I hate this part. I hate Stiles for being this smart, both of them.

“You are so deeply fucked up, and no, you don't do this for yourself. We both know why you really do this. Why you're anywhere near Beacon Hills and not with Cora, like you should be," Stiles concludes, not saying anything I didn't already know. 

“So, what then?” I ask. I should keep my mouth shut, leave it alone, but I’m angry because we agreed a long time ago to not talk about certain things, and this Stiles is skirting too close to those things.

We never go anywhere near this. We agreed because it was far too dangerous for both of us. It was his idea.

“Oh, you’re going to be mad at me?" his tone and words are too familiar, my mind goes to the time and place the real Stiles shouted them at me. "You’re going to tell me what to do now?” Stiles says, and the white room morphs around us until we're in the hospital. That night when we were trying to save Cora. The night we found out about Jennifer. 

I know what comes next. I already know the words that pin me to the ground, crush me until I can't breathe anymore. Proof Stiles knows about Kate, that he knows what I did. 

“Stop. Don't say it, just... stop.” I close my eyes, hoping he won't say any more. 

“It's cute you think you get to pick and choose what I say to you. You can't control my mouth in any incarnation, buddy. That's why it's me saying it, and not someone else. It would be great if I was afraid of you, or ‘respected’ you,” Stiles snorts then laughs, like respect is some kind of joke. “Which we both know is bullshit. I think Tolstoy said it best..." Stiles stops and stares at me, the hospital fades and the white room flares to life around us. He’s angry now, a distinctly Stiles kind of angry. He paces around me, waiting for me to apologize for putting words in his mouth. When I don't, he snarls and keeps talking. "Fuck you, I hate Tolstoy, stop making me say shit like that.” 

Stiles glares at me, he does hate Tolstoy, but I don't. It's an ongoing point of contention I wished we talked about more, me and the real Stiles. 

“Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be,” I say this out loud because I know this Stiles won’t now, he’s too annoyed with me for trying to prove a point. It's me talking, not him. 

“I don’t know if you should be taking advice from a bitter, emotionally compromised, weak female character in an ancient novel, but you know, still true. I don't respect you.” Stiles says, waiting for some reaction, but I won’t, because we don't go there.

We agreed not to go there. 

“We don't go there?” He laughs again. “Fuck you, fine, we'll play this stupid game. Derek Hale doesn't respect me either. You hear that world?” Stiles shouts at the ceiling, throwing a bizarre little temper tantrum. “Derek Hale does not respect me!” 

“I hate you,” I say, because I do. I am filled with rage, and hate, and loathing, and I want to shut him up, but I can't. He’s not the real Stiles, he’s me, and I’m fighting with myself about this bullshit, again. 

“Almost, jesus, that was so close. You don’t hate me, you hate you. Sorry, try again.” Stiles smirks, his face suddenly filling my field of vision. I don't know how he got so close. He was just a few paces away from me, but now he’s talking so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek, as if being this close will force me to react or get my undivided attention. It works. It always works. “Will you go talk to the real me, instead of always wasting my fucking time here?” He backs off and gives me space, but I refuse to react. “As often as you find yourself here, you'd think you would have figured it out; you have to take your chances while you have them. Next time you might not make it. Next time you might die, and it won't be from the stupidity of not taking care of yourself. It will be an arrow to the chest, or maybe straight-up decapitation.” 

“I know what I risk,” I say because I do. I understand perfectly. 

“Yeah, that's not the issue, it never was. I'm asking, we’re all constantly asking, why you have to do it alone? We’re all here with you. When you think about it, you think ‘We’, but you’re the asshole keeping us at arms length, and you know what? It isn't helping. You’re going to get one of us killed trying to stay professional and keep your distance. You’re not a professional, this isn’t your job. It’s a labor of love, but you won’t take the god damned love. There’s no balance in that, so it’s doomed to fail.”

I know it’s doomed to fail, that's why I hate having some fucked up hope it will all work out in the end. It’s why I avoid certain people, and why I can't avoid others. I don’t want to listen anymore, because I don’t want to talk myself into risking the one thing I have left. The single thing that keeps me headed toward some kind of future. This is why it’s dangerous to pin your hope on one person, because they might not want you to. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re too old and fucked up to worry about something as stupid as being rejected.” Stiles shakes his head, really and truly disappointed in me. 

“I am too old,” I say, arguing the point of the thing we never talk about. 

“The shit that comes out of your mouth sometimes.... You think trite, human ideals of respectability mean anything to creatures like us? A handful of years between your birthday and his unravels this whole thing? We operate outside of those standards because we aren’t those people. We don't need those laws, we answer to each other, not them. Why haven't you even attempted to answer to his father, who bends the very law he represents to serve you because you keep him and his son safe?” Stiles rolls his eyes, turning to walk away. “Actually, fuck that. Don't give me some bullshit answer. I don't care anymore.” 

Stiles turns on his heel and grabs me by the shirt, shaking me and shouting my name. The sudden violence of it shocks me. I'm trembling and coughing, the world is too real, and everything hurts. 

“Derek, c’mon, wake up. I can't fucking move you by myself. God dammit.” Stiles, the real Stiles, actual, honest to god Stiles is shaking me by the front of my shirt. 

I cover his hand with mine and look around, trying to figure out how I got in this excruciating position. My head is resting on the shifter and the seat belt is pulled tight against the wound across my ribs. Long fingers struggle against my shirt, untwisting it and freeing the seat belt. The pressure of the seat belt felt horrible, but it probably stopped the bleeding for long enough to buy me a little consciousness. 

“I tried to pull your legs out first,” Stiles explains, pulling me up as I scoot off the seat. He holds my side, trying to hold me together, getting blood all over his hands as I stand up. 

I don't have enough of anything left to keep myself upright, so Stiles does. My car is halfway up the sidewalk, two houses down from his, and I have no idea how that happened. I was headed for Scott’s house. Stiles drops me on his front steps and moves my car into his driveway. It’s late enough hopefully no one has noticed. Stiles moves quickly, taking care of everything that might raise suspicions, maybe earn us a call to the police department. He is thorough, he has learned a little too well. I don't like it, but I can relax. I don't have to worry. He'll take care of it. We go inside and he puts me down at the kitchen table, being careful as he slowly lowers me into the chair. 

“I’m gonna call Melissa, do you need anything? Aspirin, more duct tape?” Stiles asks, cringing uncomfortably. 

“Don’t call Melissa,” I say, because I’m sure I’ll live now. The other Stiles told me I will, and I came back. 

“You need help Derek,” he says. His stern tone sounds remarkably like the other Stiles, the one in the white room who forces me to speak plainly, and not sugar coat things, or drench shit in hopelessness. 

“I remember,” I say out loud, not really meaning to. 

I doesn't help my case because Stiles looks at me like I’m not making sense. It only makes sense to me, but it shouldn’t. I never remember the white room, not until I go back again, but now I remember all of them, and how I'm not supposed to. I don’t know what it means to be given all this knowledge. The long, fruitful conversations that used to be tucked away in my subconscious are now waiting to be unraveled. There has to be a reason I can remember now. Whatever it is, it must be big. I must be close to failing, or succeeding. Jesus, I hope it means something and it's not just some random misfiring in my brain.

I count my fingers, just to make sure it’s all real, that I’m not still back in the white room closer to death than I’ve ever been before. 

“Oh, fuck this, I’m calling, You are not okay,” Stiles says, watching me count. 

Ten fingers, only ten. Eight and two thumbs. 

“Wait.” I grab his wrist before he can get too far away. He turns back toward me, breaking my grip on his wrist as he puts his hand on my shoulder. His eyes search my face, waiting for important words he thinks are coming. They are important, but not likes he thinks they’ll be. “You can help me,” I say, hoping he’ll agree. “If you want to,” I add, because I don't want to be an asshole. 

I don't know if I will have the same clarity or stupidity later. I have to take advantage of this now. I need him, and I need to tell him that, but I have to wait until I'm cleaned up at least. I won’t play out another life altering moment covered in my own blood. I have to be better than that. I have to try. 

“I can't help you, I don't know how to --” 

“Stiles, please. It's not that bad,” I interrupt him because I’ll let him go if I hear too much fear or uncertainty in his voice. 

If he says no again, I won't insist. I’ll do what he wants me to. I owe him that.

Stiles pulls his hand away from my shoulder, leaving a cold spot. I can actually feel my resolve withering under his glare of disapproval. It’s not the same as John’s disapproval, but it’s close. I feel powerless when John disapproves, I feel hopeless when Stiles does. 

Either way, he’s gone. I lean over on the kitchen table, moving slow to avoid the pain. The table is cold, it smells like cleaner and dust, like they haven’t eaten here in a while. I close my eyes and wait. Melissa will be here in a few minutes, and I need to make sure I don't say strange things, that I’m not confused or unsure, or she’ll make me stay with her. I have to be cold and quiet, self contained, but that feels so far away. I’m going to have to work for it. 

“I’m not stitching you up, I fucking hate needles.” Stiles throws a pile of towels on the floor next to me and goes to the sink. 

I am relieved, so relived I wish I was a child. I wish I was young and stupid and allowed to cry, like when I was little, before I was expected to protect people. Before Cora was born. I turn my face into my sleeve, just in case, because my throat feels tight and I don't trust myself. 

I listen to Stiles work. Relief turns to apprehension, and fear I pushed him into something he really doesn't want to do. I wish I was a different person. Someone who didn't take things like white rooms and nematons seriously. This would be so much easier if it was only about us. I think I would know for sure what to do then. 

He moves around the house, procuring things I hope aren't superglue and bailing twine. I hope he knows enough because I’m not going to be able to bark orders at him, or make him do anything. It’s not life and death, and I don't have any rage left in me anymore, not for him. I can feel it healing now, but it’s deep, and slow. The wound will keep bleeding for days if it’s not cleaned and taped shut at least. 

“Can you sit up?” he asks, pulling lightly on my shoulder. 

I do so slowly, until I am upright. I move to take off my shirt, but moving my arms that direction hurts my chest in places I didn't realize were injured. Stiles puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me then lifts the back of my shirt, pulling it over my head then down my arms. 

“Jesus, is your heart okay?” he asks, staring at my chest. A long purple bruise has bloomed under my skin. The dotted red marks all around the purple look like pressure wounds. Stiles leans in, his fingers gingerly testing the flesh near the bruise. "Does anything feel broken?" he asks. 

“I’m okay,” I say, pulling off my shirt the rest of the way and dropping it on the floor. 

"It's just a bruise?" he asks and I nod, certain he will notice or comment sarcastically on how well I am tolerating his curiosity and questions. "It looks like Scott's face sort of, where the sounds wave of her scream hit him, but a lot worse. It must have ruptured things, but it's healing slow, like damage from an alpha?" he asks, confused and concerned. I nod again, but this time he isn't looking at the bruise he's looking at me waiting for some kind of reaction. I lived, that's all the reaction I have right now. "It could have killed you, this could have killed you," Stiles says, like he can't believe something like a scream could be so deadly.

"She was old, she learned to use what she had," I tell him. Stiles of all people should understand this. His eyes go soft and he straightens up, mourning her for a moment just like John does. It never matters to them how monstrous a thing is, their gut reaction to death, the regret and sadness that instantly plays over their faces, says more about how human they truly believe we all are than any promise I could ask for.

Scissors cut away my makeshift bandage. The air feels harsh and cold on my wet skin. His hands lift my arm and move me gently as he works to clean me up. It doesn't take him long to get past the dried blood, down to clean skin and open wound. Today he is silent and intent, solving the problem of me and my injury, but other times Stiles acts like the blood and mess bother him, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t like seeing people suffer. It's difficult for him to witness. It makes him anxious because he feels it too deeply. He pretends the blood, the damage, and the sickness is the problem so he doesn't have to admit it's the pain he doesn't want to see. He glances up at me the focused scowl turning into mild surprise as he takes in my expression. I'm not sure what he see's there but whatever it is, his surprise turns into concern quickly. 

“Did you hurt your head?” Stiles asks tentatively, gesturing quickly toward his own head. It takes me a moment to understand, he’s serious.

“No,” I assure him. "My brain is the only thing I'm sure is working for me right now," I say, smiling softly. 

I want to make him feel better, but this doesn't seem to work. Stiles is used to my monosyllabic answers. My uncharacteristic response makes his scowl deepen, but he moves on, tearing open a package of something that smells like iodine. He has betadine swabs in his hand. He doesn't realize I don't need them, which surprises me, but the package is already open, so I don’t say anything. His mouth is a tight line as he marks a wide path around the wound, like has probably seen Melissa do before. He scowls again as dark, red blood seeps out, ruining his hard work. 

He grabs my thigh for stability and and lifts himself, hovering over me, staring at the wound. His fingertips brush against his thumb in an odd rhythm as he stares, his eyes fixed on the problem he is now intent on solving. I should tell him to tape it, or not worry about the blood, but I know I can't interrupt him now, it's pointless. He would ignore me, wave a hand and dismiss anything I said unless it was helpful. No one, not even his father can derail him once he's this focused. Every time I've ever tried all I did was suffer for it and he got his way anyhow. I’ll admit, I’m fascinated. I could watch him do this forever. I have no idea what he might come up with, but he almost always surprises me.

Suddenly he’s looking at me, his eyes fixed on mine, concentrating. He’s fixated like I’m part of his problem. His eyes search mine for some piece of information I haven’t given him yet. I never considered this. I'm not sure why. Stiles always asks questions and I always dread giving him answers. There will be no holding him off if he starts asking, and I don't want the shit I have to say to be interrogated out of me. I look down at the table, I break first hoping he's smart enough to realize I've never done that before. I need a little mercy, if he's willing to show it. 

Stiles walks away without saying a word, silently giving me what I asked for. My chest heaves and I let out a long, low breath of relief. He has never made it that easy before, but neither have I. My actions are piling up the questions in his mind, but I promise myself I'll answer them all. I'll be kind. I'll return the favor. When he comes back he reeks of whiskey, and he has a first aid bag he liberated from an ambulance months ago. He sits back down where he was before and starts pulling things out of the bag, reading the packages until he finds what he's looking for. He opens a thin cellophane bag and pulls out a needle and thread. The needle is thin and curved, humane, not like the sewing kit I improvise with at home. 

“You don't have to --” 

“Stop talking,” Stiles commands, scowling at the needle as he turns it in his fingers, looking for the best way to hold it. 

Tension I didn’t know had settled into my body slowly drains away. Relief spreads across my shoulders and chest. My lungs hurt, everything hurts, but I can breathe deep again. I shouldn't let his simple words affect me like this, but I don't want to pretend I'm in control of this situation anymore. I'm more than willing to do as he asks. Submitting is something different, but he doesn't know that. All he see's is my compliance. He won't know any different if I never explain it to him. I sit back in the chair, hooking my arm around the back of it to stay out of Stiles’ way. I could sleep right now if I let myself, but I don't want to leave Stiles alone while he does this. 

The stitches themselves are tiny pinpricks of inconvenience. Stiles looks up at me, concern etched on his face in the little lines between his eyebrows. He thinks he’s hurting me, and there’s no way I could convince him otherwise, so I don't try. Not reacting at all seems to assure him i'm not bothered by what he's doing. I watch him silently, impressed with how coordinated he is, and how fast. His stitches are too long and uneven, but they’re tight, and they feel better than an open wound. He goes back over his stitches, crossing them like X's. I'm sure he's seen this in a movie. It's likely he has never watched Melissa do this, or allowed himself to be stitched up if there was an alternative. I want to tell him it's unnecessary, but he's done a good job and I don't really care. 

The bandage and tape stretch across my ribs cleanly. Stiles doubles up the tape where breathing moves the bandage, moving on once he's satisfied it's going to stay. After picking up the towels and cleaning most of the mess, Stiles hands me grey sweatpants. He leaves while I change and I can hear him washing his hands and changing his shirt. When he puts everything in the wash, any and all evidence I came in a bloody broken mess has vanished. The only thing left is the perfect white bandage cutting a line across my ribs. I stay at the kitchen table, sitting where he put me down because I don’t know where in the Stilinski house I’m allowed to go besides right here. 

“You lost a lot of blood," Stiles says as he lowers himself down, crouching next to my chair so he can look me in the eye. "Do you feel like you're healing okay?" he asks. 

I nod but I want to say more. I want to thank him and tell him how grateful I am. "I feel a lot better," is what comes out.

The words are too small but they seem to make him happy. A smile stretches over his face unexpectedly and his eyes are bright. "You should probably eat,” Stiles suggests, still solving the problem even though I am well past any kind of danger. “Do you want a shirt? I have a few that might fit you now.” His smile softens as he gestures toward himself. He has filled out considerably and he is hoping I will remember the last time I borrowed one of his shirts for the humor of the situation. 

I try to smile but all I can think of is how badly I treated him when he did the same thing for me then that he's doing for me now. “No, I’m okay. Thanks.” My words feel hollow and meaningless. I want to give myself permission to say better words, to say what I came here to say, but the timing still feels all wrong. 

Stiles covers my shoulder with his hand as he gets up. His fingers running over my skin in the silent, reassuring way he touches people when he wants them to know everything is okay. I usually only get that kind of attention when he is assuring me someone is safe or we’re done running. 

I guess it's me. I’m the one who qualifies as safe now. 

“C’mon, you can lay down on the couch and watch a movie with me.” Stiles holds his hand out, offering to help me up. 

I take his hand and slowly stand up. The stitches are inflamed and sore, like they do as they heal. They pull as I flex against them to rise, but the wound is healing much faster now. It feels so much better than it did before, the inflexibility is tolerable. I expected it. As I stand, Stiles reaches out to steady me and somehow his offer of stability turns into my arms around him. Somehow, my face is tucked against his neck, and my eyes are closed. I am fairly certain I am the one who has done this, but maybe it was someone better and smarter than me. 

His arms move slowly to respond, like he’s surprised, or isn't sure what to do with me. They lock around me regardless though. A moment later his hands are spread out over my back and neck, gripping and testing my skin like he's not sure I'm real. His breathing is shallow and his heart is racing. He didn't expect this any more than I did. He didn’t expect me to be the one who did this, but it had to be me. He already tried, and I chose to ignore him. I dismissed his attempts every time. He was probably resolved to try again someday, but I am too wary to take what's offered anymore. All he could ever do was wait for me to come to him. Maybe he convinced himself I never would, that this was an impossibility. 

His hands never trembled as he stitched me up, even though I know he hated it, but they’re trembling now, just a little. He’s holding me like he might not let me go if I tried to let go first, but I’m not going anywhere until he’s done, until he believes me.

“You’re not dying from werewolf cancer or anything are you?” he asks, unable to reconcile this is just me, only me. 

I don't blame him, and it's not only me, not really. I had to have my ass kicked and almost die to get me here, multiple times. I don't answer him quickly enough. Stiles cares more about my well being than the sudden influx of affection. He holds me tighter for a moment, then pulls back, putting just enough space between us to see my face. 

“Promise me you’re okay,” he asks hopefully. 

“I’m fine,” I promise, hoping he will believe me.

Better than belief, he smiles again like my answer makes him happy. His hands settle carefully on my chest and shoulders, close to my neck. His thumb moves across my skin slowly. His hands move around my neck and pull me close again. This embrace is more comfortable, less desperate. His long fingers slide into my hair, trailing through soothingly as he presses his face against my cheek. I’m thankful he’s making this easy for both of us, meeting me more than halfway. He’s making things simple, translating what I give him silently so I don't have to push myself or work hard for this. It's cheating in a way. I've made him work for it, he should make me prove myself, but for some reason he's not making me explain, or forcing me to say it all out loud like he should. His touch is quiet and intimate. The affection is clean and warm. It's honest and it feels so good I don't want him to let me go, but he does, eventually. 

“You need to eat," he presses again, this time the worry isn't masked. The intensity of his concern plays out in his voice and it shocks me. I want to apologize, but he moves on too quickly. "I can make you something here, or I can go get burgers, clean up your car a little?” Stiles offers. 

“Whatever’s easy,” I say, hoping he won't leave because I can't. Not for a while. 

“I’ll make something real quick. You should lay down.” He pulls on my shoulder, leading me toward the living room. His hand somehow seamlessly travels over my skin and connects with mine as he leads me into the living room. 

His fingers are tight against mine. I reluctantly let him go and his hand slides across my shoulder apologetically. I sink into the couch, tired and thankful to be comfortable finally. Stiles leaves without turning on the television or fretting over how comfortable I am. He knows I’ll get comfortable myself and I like the quiet. I listen to him move around until all I hear are the too quiet sounds of stirring something on the stove top. I fall asleep for a little while, waking up when I smell tomato soup. I open my eyes when Stiles sits on the couch next to me. 

He puts on The Fifth Element, which I remember him saying he’s seen hundreds of times. He quotes it occasionally, something I used to find annoying because I didn't like the movie that much, but this time Bruce Willis doesn't seem like such a tool. It's nice and easy to be distracted for a moment. I'm tired but I also want to say things before I change my mind, before I lose this thing in my head that’s telling me to reach out and tell Stiles how I feel. Usually there’s a giant blockade of baggage and crazy stopping up my brain and mouth, but right now I actually want to speak.

I can't say it all at once though. I can't warn him about what the banshee said without explaining why, and I can't do that without telling him how I feel. I shouldn't give him both that way though. I would just be distracting him from my confession with a prophetic threat on his life. He would wonder if the imminent danger was the only reason I’m saying it now. Maybe he wouldn't care, maybe he would make that easy too because he knows how life is. We've tried, but we can't pick and choose how this shit finds us. I can't do that to him though. I can make this better. I can protect him for a while. I’m better than just dumping it all on him. He wouldn't do that to me, so one has to come before the other. 

I say that to myself, as if I have a choice about which one. 

“Stiles,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it again. 

He turns to look at me, smiling at the comical police chase playing out on the television. His expression softens and I have his undivided attention. He's watching, waiting, and I can't find the words for him. Do I just say it, or should I explain myself a bit first? Isn't this sort of thing hard to hear? Don't I need to soften things a little and say it the right way? I've thought too much, waited too long. I don't know how bad I look, but if his expression is any indication, it’s terrible. His eyebrows are drawn and his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something. He wants to fix this, he wants me to say something, give him some sort of clue as to how to do this for me. His drawn, desperate expression reminds me a little too much of someone else. I've done this before.

I can't do this again, not this way. I can’t start something with someone when I’m an awful, bloody, broken mess. It’s too much like history repeating, and I didn't think of it till just now, why he's making things so easy on me. He feels sorry for me. Now I don't know what to say, or how to deflect the gravity of how I started out. I’m not the kind of person who thinks up witty saves on the fly. I wish I was. I wish I could save Stiles from this horrible moment I've accidentally created. It’s too much, remembering Jennifer, accidentally letting her in. I don;t know how I can extract myself without ruining everything or explaining this, neither of which I'm willing to do. 

Stiles opens his mouth as he watches me struggle. I don’t want to be frustrated or angry, but I’m stuck now, with no way out and no energy left to run. I shouldn't have done this. All of this was a terrible idea. 

I close my eyes trying to block out the sound of the movie, and the dread of impending humiliation, as the composure I have managed to keep in the face of harder times, slips away. I’ve stared down worse pain, deadlier enemies, but this, somehow, this is what unravels me. This moment is the worst thing I could have possibly done to myself when I was already so close to breaking. I should run, vanish for a couple days and come back when I have my shit together, if I ever come back. Now is when I should run, right now, but I can’t force my eyes open. 

Hands wrap around my ankles and drag my legs up onto the couch. The shocking absurdity of it knocks me out of my downward spiral like a punch to the gut. I open my eyes and Stiles is over me, pushing me into the cushions. Turning me with gentle touches and quiet words. I do as he asks, but I still plan on running. Any minute now, I’ll get up and be gone. No more humiliation, no more confusion, no more bad memories or words I don't know how to think, let alone speak. 

Then, Stiles surprises me by climbing up onto the couch with me. He won't have enough room if he tries to share because we are both too big to lay comfortably on this couch by ourselves, let alone together. He’s leaning over me, waiting for me to pull him down with me. He expects me make room and hold him so he doesn't have to worry about how much room we don't have. My arm wraps around his waist, and I pull him close. He stretches out over me, letting one of his legs fall between mine and the other one dangle on the floor. Maybe it should be uncomfortable, but he's careful and he's close. I’m not running now. I still don't know what I’m going to say, but the one thing I am certain of is that I want him right where he is. 

“Nobody ever mentions how awkward arms are when you cuddle, like where the fuck do I put these?” Stiles asks, his fingers threaded together in front of his mouth. 

Honey brown eyes watch me expectantly. Even though his words sound like a joke, he’s waiting for an answer, for permission to put his hands somewhere safe. I have no doubt in my mind he understands exactly what all my terrifyingly vague expressions were all about, but he still won't touch me without my permission. I want to ask why, but I know why. Before, I was just injured and confusing, but now, I'm upset and vulnerable. He's careful. Stiles is always careful with people, but no one has been this careful with me in a very long time. I don't know why, but this is worse than everything else. I can't breathe or think. I want him to crack another joke and destroy my assumptions because being wrong and feeling stupid would be so much better than thinking about how fucked up it is that someone asking for permission to touch me, breaks me to pieces. 

Worried eyes watch me, his hands move impatiently and I don't want him to think he’s done something wrong. I pull myself together, I make myself answer. “Anywhere, I don't care,” I say because I don't care, I just want him here. 

His hands unfold and slide over my chest, careful to avoid the fading bruises. The feel of his hands over my skin distracts me from the momentary crisis he accidentally tripped by asking where he could put them. I like how careful he is. I like how he touches me and looks at my face, like my eyes are the most important part of me. No one has ever looked at me the way Stiles is looking at me now. I can't look away. I want to see it all now in case I never see it again. 

“Stop worrying and sleep. Whatever she said to you, it can't be as bad as anything that’s already happened to me, or to us.”

Stiles knows. 

He always knows. He always figures it out, and I have no idea how. I don't know if I’m that transparent, but no one else is brave enough to say so to my face, or only he knows how to read me like an open book. I want to say things, something meaningful or grateful. I could tell him any of it now because he’s figured it out on his own. He’s taken all the burden of confession away because I couldn't handle it, but now that I'm free to say as I please I still don't know how to explain myself. There are always so many strange things. The white room, the other Stiles, prophecy, promises. None of it is easy to explain. 

“Don’t. Stop worrying. We’ve gotten really good at this,” Stiles assures me, but he's so close I can't see his face anymore. His hand slides over my neck and he breathes deep, exhaling against my skin. “We’ll be even better together, right? You don't have to worry because things will be better now.” The words Stiles says resonate deeply. It's already better, like I’ve been stitched up, and the healing part is inevitable now. I did it all wrong, he deserves better than me at my worst, but it worked out anyhow. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t come here because of what she said. I came here -- “ I stop, because I don’t really know why I headed here. I don't remember. “I figured it out because of what you said,” I offer, like it’s a better answer. It can't make the kind of sense to him that it does to me because that whole conversation took place in the white room. No matter how real it felt, Stiles wasn't there. 

“It doesn't matter why you’re here,” Stiles says, quiet against my skin. “Are you going to freak out and leave as soon as you’re better? Get weird and pretend none of this happened?” he asks, listing off sins I am wholly capable of. 

I can't now, because he’s called me out on it before I could find a way to rationalize doing something like that. “No, I won't do anything like that,” I admit, thankful the potential is gone. 

“You’re a complicated asshole, but I love you anyways," Stiles breathes out like he's relieved. "I know I’m kind of a dick, but I’m pretty sure you’re saying and doing all this shit because you love me too.” It's a statement, but the question in it can't go unanswered. 

“Yeah, I do,” I say, unsure when Stiles became so forgiving and accommodating. Maybe he was always this way, I was just ruining it by constantly rejecting him. “I love you,” I say, because I need to, and I can stand to be a little more accommodating. I can stop worrying so much about myself, and the bullshit in my head. I can make things easy for him the way he’s making it easy on me. 

“We’re already better. That was better,” Stiles sighs and relaxes against me. I didn’t know how tense he was, but now he’s a pile of loose bones and smiles. His fingers barely clinging to the skin on my shoulder. “So, we’ll stop worrying about this, because me and you, we’re going to be the easy part, right?” Stiles asks, already sure I understand, that I’ll agree. 

He’s right though, Stiles was never the complicated one, I was, and life is. He was probably ready a long time ago. Stiles knows how to trust people, and he’s proven himself, time and time again. I can trust him, and I can trust John too. I can hide out here and heal for a couple of days. I can stop playing this game where I pretend they don’t care, and let them take care of me like they've asked to so many times before. 

I don't want to be misunderstood though, I don't want to leave the door open for my insecurity and tragic misfortune to creep in and strike us down. My imagination runs wild with scenarios that in anyone’s else's life, would be absurd. But not for me, and not for Stiles. There’s no such thing as normal for us, and no such thing as too careful. We sacrifice, and we leave nothing to chance. I tip my head back, pulling away from Stiles resting on my forehead. I pull him down, just a little, so we’re face to face again. 

“I want to kiss you, can I?” I ask, and I think it might be the most sane thing that's come out of my mouth all night. 

The scent of his approval and excitement is almost overwhelming. I smile because now I know he'll say yes, but I wait. I want to hear him say it. He blinks slowly, like he isn’t sure he heard me right. I wonder if I should repeat myself. “That’s such a stupid question,” he says. 

His smile is anxious and his fingers tremble as they slide across my lower lip. He doesn't say yes like I want him to, instead he leans in and presses his lips to mine softly. The taste of him, the heat of his skin so close to my face is like a fountain of warmth and goodness. My hands slide over his back, brave and bold as his body responds to mine. Everything before now might have been done wrong, but this is perfect. We did this right. Our connection breaks as he pulls away unexpectedly, like he wants to keep being careful. He wants the kiss to be chaste and sweet, but I chase him back. I kiss him, unhurried and easy, my tongue sliding over his lower lip. His lips part and a low, appreciative noise hums in his throat as he matches my intent with his own. He loves me and he wants me the same way I want him, that much is crystal clear now.

When my head drops, my eyes heavy and weak with tired, I'm sure he understands that kiss meant something I won't take back, something I want more than I need. Stiles gives me a soft smile. He closes his eyes and tucks his head down close to mine, letting me go, assuring me he’ll still be here when I wake up.


End file.
